


Wink Murder

by QueenoftheDarned



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Gen, Illnesses, Implied Addiction, Murder, Mystery, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 01:56:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19367806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheDarned/pseuds/QueenoftheDarned
Summary: Featuring a murder, John's dwindling patience, a bout of the flu, a speakeasy, and Sherlock's last pack of cigarettes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Wink Murder**

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was many things, but his sharing nature was not something he was known for, and for good reason. Despite that, he did know there were some things that were better when shared with his dear friend John Watson. (His own genius, for example, was too great a burden to bear all on his own.) The two bachelors shared many other things - books, meals, their evening scotch - things that even Sherlock had little to complain about. Unfortunately, when John picked up a cold or cough it was inevitable that at some point Sherlock would come down with it too. So much for altruism.

He’d been so  _ careful  _ this time. From pulling his scarf up over his face when they had to be in close proximity, to spiking his own tea with vitamin supplements (and John’s, when he wasn’t looking), he’d been sure he would outsmart it this time. But no. As it turns out, even the great Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes could not outwit the common cold.

John, having weathered it all rather well with a strong immune system, was feeling much better. Sherlock took this as the gravest of personal insults, retiring to the couch with a box of tissues and a blanket. There, he huddled in a ball of tangled limbs and misery, silent except for the occasional pitiful sniffle. He barely emerged even for the cups of tea his flatmate brought him as an apology.

John set down one now; and a limp, pale hand emerged from the misshapen lump, feeling around until it curled around the handle. He watched the pathetic display with mild amusement.

“Not feeling any better then?” he inquired pleasantly, as Sherlock unfolded himself just enough to sip his tea. All he got in return was a red-eyed glare and a disparaging sniff. John took the hint and backed off. He wasn’t offended by the lack of gratitude. Or at least, he was used to it by now.

Actually, it was quite peaceful in the flat with Sherlock indisposed. For once there was no one shooting holes in the mantelpiece, or ordering him around, or squirreling questionable things away in the back of the fridge for him to find later. Sure, he felt obligated to stick around to make sure the overgrown toddler didn’t starve to death, but the peace and quiet was a welcome change.

He could catch up on his blog, he realized, remembering the stories he had been putting off typing up for days now. He left his friend to his self-pity and shut himself in his room, where he settled himself at his desk and flipped his laptop open.

He decided to start with the case of the murder at the speakeasy. He frowned, trying to cast his mind back to how it all started. Normally he would avail himself of Sherlock’s near-photographic memory when he needed something clarifying, but he had no intention of disturbing the other man’s bed rest. Well,  _ couch  _ rest. He’d just have to try to concentrate...

* * *

It all started with a late night visit from Lestrade. Sherlock remarked on his presence as soon as they heard footfalls on the staircase leading to their flat. There came three knocks at the door, and when it was clear Sherlock wasn’t about to get up and answer it, John sighed and did so instead.

“He’s got a case for me,” said his friend, rather smugly. It was a change from the gloomy mood he’d been in all day, as he had grown bored without a case and was even more unbearable to be around than usual. John bit back an acerbic reply and opened the door.

He was right, of course. Standing in the hallway was Lestrade, who did indeed have a case for him. Judging by the grim smile on his face, it was exactly Sherlock’s type. John let him in, although it felt a bit like sending him into the den of a particularly peevish dragon.

“What do you want?” he demanded, not getting out of his chair but crossing his legs and tilting his head back so he was still somehow looking down at his nose at the DI.

“Well,  _ you _ texted me telling me to bring you a case,  _ so,  _ I’ve brought you a case.” Lestrade produced his phone from his pocket and held it up. On the screen was a photograph of a very round-looking man lying on his back, his face a grotesque mask of agony. “This fella keeled over and died at a bar downtown just a couple of hours ago.”

“A man of that size dropping dead is  _ hardly  _ a mystery, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped. “Did your people even  _ try  _ with this one?”

Lestrade shrugged. “He’s got no history of heart problems in the family, and his wife says he was healthy as could be up until today.” He glanced in John’s direction, but the doctor made a noncommittal noise in his throat. He’d finished work for the day, and had long ago learned his lesson about trying to push Sherlock into taking a case. “And then there’s this.” Lestrade reached into his jacket and took out a folded flyer, which he handed to the detective.

“Charlie & the Moonbabies,” Sherlock read aloud. “One night only, at the Starshine Speakeasy. Oh. Jazz.” He tossed the flyer back to Lestrade and waved his hand dismissively. “Not interested.”

“What?” John couldn’t help but interject. Sherlock ignored him.

“It’s swing, actually,” Lestrade said, casually.  _ Too  _ casually. He made a show of patting his pockets and heading very slowly for the door. “Ah well, it’ll all come out with the autopsy, anyway. Probably just a coincidence that the band was  _ singing  _ about murder when it happened.” There was a pause, but as he went to step over the threshold, Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

“Wait.” In a flash the detective had thrown on his coat and was grabbing his scarf from the back of his chair. The sight of him striding towards the door galvanized John, who shot out of his chair, grabbing his own jacket from its hook.

“Oh, you’re coming?” Lestrade suppressed a smile and carefully avoided eye contact with John.

“Naturally,” came the response, without a hint of irony.

They had just stepped out of the door when Mrs Hudson waylaid them in the stairwell, her keys rattling in her hand.

“Sherlock! I was just about to-” she began, but cut off abruptly and sniffed the air wafting out of the flat. “Sherlock, have you-”

“Not now, Mrs Hudson. I’m on my way out.” Sherlock gave a curt nod and slipped past, followed by John and Lestrade, who shot her an apologetic look. Mrs Hudson watched them go with suspicion. There was definitely the smell of cigarettes hanging in the air, and she had a sneaking feeling it hadn’t come from the doctor or police inspector.

* * *

John glanced up. He could have sworn he heard his name, but he had been so in the zone he’d lost track of his surroundings. He paused, hands on the keyboard, until Sherlock’s voice feebly calling his name reached him through his bedroom door. He considered ignoring it, but figured the other man wouldn’t be speaking to him unless it was important. He got up wearily and stuck his head around the door.

“Yes?” he inquired. Sherlock looked up at him miserably from the couch, his eyes watery and red, his face paler than usual. John couldn’t help but feel a surge of pity for the man.

“Could you pass me my laptop?” he croaked. John’s eyes swiveled to the computer in question, sitting on the table a mere couple of feet from the sofa, and his fountain of goodwill dried up as suddenly as it had started.

“Sherlock, you’re not bedridden. You have a cold.”

“Which is  _ your _ fault,” the detective reminded him. John bit back a reply, but stalked over to the table, grabbed Sherlock’s laptop and set it down none-too-gently on his lap. “Happy now?” he said. Sherlock just handed him a folded piece of paper.

“Could you also go and buy some things for me?” John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Right  _ now _ ?”

“You can use my card. My wallet’s in my coat.” Sherlock gestured in the direction of his coat, folded over the back of a chair. His tone made it sound as though he were doing his long-suffering friend a  _ favour _ . John wordlessly unfolded the paper and headed over to retrieve the wallet, but paused with a frown as he scanned the list’s neatly itemized contents.

“Vitamin C supplements, two 32 packs of paracetamol, kiwifruit, kale and  _ chilli peppers _ ?”

“Kiwifruit, kale and chilli contain far more Vitamin C than-”

“-Than oranges, yes, I know, I know,” John interrupted, before he could start on one of his infamous tsunamis of data. “I’ll be back soon.”

True to his word, one hasty trip to the shops later John returned with Sherlock’s requests in a carrier bag, which he dropped at his invalid friend’s feet with a thud.

“Here,” he said. “Just don’t try to take all those drugs at once. Please? It’s my day off.” he waited patiently until Sherlock nodded to show he’d heard him, and then with a sigh of relief hurried back to his desk in case he started making more demands.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade was waiting for them outside the  _ Starshine Speakeasy _ when they pulled up in a cab, having driven on ahead. It was just as well he did, as the place was entirely unremarkable from the outside, identifiable only by several police cars parked along the street. It seemed that, just like the underground bars of the past, this place was the epitome of exclusiveness.

“So, what made you change your mind?” John had asked while they were in the cab.

“Swing,” answered Sherlock shortly, as if it were the most natural response in the world. John mulled this over, sensing that even if he were to ask what he meant by that, the answer would bring him no closer to understanding.

“Isn’t that basically jazz?”

“Don’t be such a philistine,” snapped Sherlock. “Swing has a sense of humour.” John fought the urge to scoff out loud.  _ Sherlock,  _ calling  _ him  _ a philistine? The man who had been surprised to learn that the earth went around the sun? He shook his head to himself, and lapsed into silence for the rest of the ride.

True to its name, the speakeasy lay down a narrow flight of stairs, which opened out into a spacious but cellar-like room with a low ceiling. It was decorated with glossy wood paneling, faux-stone pillars, and comfortable looking sofas and armchairs. It was surprisingly brightly lit, but fairy lights strung up over the bar and bulbs made to look like lanterns hanging from the ceiling hinted that this wasn’t exactly par for the course here.

The place was quiet, although the remnants of a busy evening were still scattered around the place. Empty glasses littered the bar and large barrels that served as tables. It was far from empty of people though - there were two stricken-looking women standing by the bar, engaged in conversation with a uniformed police officer, and a few waistcoat-clad bar staff milling around, clearly longing to go home. At the far end was a low stage, decked out with red drapes and more fairy lights, where several unusual looking people huddled together, dressed in a curious mix of what looked like 1920s costume and whatever they could find from the local thrift shop. Judging by the jumble of cables and instrument cases around them, they must have been the musicians.

What had caught Sherlock’s eye, however, lay in the centre of it all. The large man from Lestrade’s photo, sprawled on his back on the floor.

“That’s Mrs Dalton, the wife, and the daughter.” Lestrade leaned in, deliberately cutting in front of the detective, and gestured to the two women who were still answering police officer’s questions. “Er, listen, they’ve had a rough night, so maybe it’s best if you get their story from Officer Finch…” he finished the last of his sentence to John, as Sherlock was already striding over to them.

“ _ Hello,  _ Mrs Dalton, _ ”  _ he said, and John winced. Lestrade mirrored his expression. They followed him over, not wishing to inflict him on anyone alone. “I have a few questions about your husband,” Sherlock was saying. “Late husband,” he corrected himself. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I already told the police,” Mrs Dalton explained. Her voice trembled, and her daughter, a young lady wearing copious amounts of mascara, laid a comforting hand on her arm.

“I know,” said Sherlock, surprisingly gently. He  _ could _ be nice when it suited him, which wasn’t often. “But I need as much information from you as you can remember. Try to remember every detail, no matter how small.”

“Well, we were halfway through our drinks when he fell out of his chair,” Mrs Dalton dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “He was clutching his stomach, shouting in pain… it was in the middle of a song,” she gestured to the stage, where the musicians were watching, their expressions inscrutable. “So no one else noticed until… until it was too late!”

“Fascinating,” breathed Sherlock, earning a glare from the tearful woman.

“Ex _ cuse _ me?”

“I’m done here,” was all he said in response, spinning on his heel. “Come and help me inspect the body,” he ordered John. Mrs Dalton blinked in outraged indignation.

“If you  _ don’t  _ mind,” she said, “I’d rather you waited for-”

“John’s a doctor,” Sherlock interrupted, clapping John on the shoulder before pulling him away before he could protest, or worse, agree with the wife’s protests. Not to be deterred, she followed them, her voice rising in pitch as she turned on Lestrade.

“Are you really going to let them do this?”

“He’s very good at his job, and it’s best for everyone involved if we let him do it,” Lestrade told her placatingly. The look the bereaved shot at Sherlock said a lot more, none of it complimentary.

“Come and sit down,” said her daughter gently, steering her over to a couch a few feet away, which they both sank into.

“You are the worst,” John snapped as he joined Sherlock by the body, keeping his voice down to a hiss so the remaining Daltons would not hear him. Sherlock stared back at him for several long seconds, considering this.

“Nah,” he said, before going back to examining Mr. Dalton’s shirt sleeves.

* * *

John almost knocked his cup of tea off his desk as a loud grinding sound from the next room snapped him back to the present. The walls of the flat were not particularly thick, and it wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to disturb him with all manner of strange noises, but he didn’t generally do it quite so  _ violently _ .

He threw open his bedroom door and rounded the corner to find the kitchen in a shambles. Fruit peelings littered the counter top, and the cupboards hung open as if someone had ransacked them, their contents piled up on every surface. In the middle of the mess, of course, stood Sherlock, wrestling with the blender and wearing John’s apron, a pair of rubber gloves, and protective goggles.

“What the  _ hell  _ are you doing?!” The doctor exploded, his voice lost over the sound of the over-filled blender trying desperately to do its job.

“WHAT?” Sherlock shouted back.

“I SAID, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” John bellowed over the appliance’s death throes. He sighed at his flatmate’s blank expression and strode over to the wall socket, yanking the plug out and finally putting the blender out of its misery. “What in god’s name _ , _ ” he repeated in the quiet that followed, “are you trying to do, apart from demolish the kitchen?”

“Making a smoothie,” Sherlock sniffed. He pulled off the lid of the blender and peered at the greenish goop inside. “Turning Vitamin C into its easiest form to intake quickly.”

“And why the marigolds?” John asked, gesturing to Sherlock’s gloved hands.

“Oh, for the chillis.”

“You put chillis,” said John, “in a smoothie.”

“Chillis, bananas, oranges, kiwifruit, kale and a handful of  _ these, _ ” he held the supplements up and shook them, “for an extra boost.” He paused to take in John’s frown. “Want some?”

Although he graciously refused the offer of Sherlock’s ‘Vitamin C Special’, John took the opportunity to make himself a cup of tea (with the only clean mug he could find). They sat opposite one another in the living room in their usual chairs, John with his tea and Sherlock slurping down his green concoction with some paracetamol for good measure.

His culinary venture having roused him from his pity party on the couch, Sherlock looked a lot better already. His eyes and nose were still red, but that may just have been the chillis. John felt another spark of sympathy - before remembering the state of the kitchen, which extinguished it flatly.

* * *

John and Sherlock finished their inspection of Mr. Dalton’s body with quiet efficiency, barely swapping a word. Sherlock was the first to straighten up. When he asked John for his thoughts, the doctor pursed his lips.

“His fingers are wrinkled,” he pointed out. “Dehydration?”

“Not unusual for someone in a drinking establishment,” said Sherlock, although he didn’t seem convinced. “Mrs Dalton is awfully upset. Excessively so, considering their marriage was on the rocks,” he remarked a moment later, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

“And how do you know that?”

“His tie.” Sherlock gestured to the Mr Dalton’s front, where his tie hung limply to the side. It had indeed been knotted by unskilled hands, judging by how uneven it was. “It’s a shambles - his wife pays attention to small details, see the way she’s colour co-ordinated her nails and her dress? She didn’t help him tie that.” He rattled all this off as if reciting from a checklist in his head. Hell, maybe he  _ was.  _ He produced the man’s phone and held it out. It was quarter past eleven already, John noted with an inward groan. He’d be falling asleep at work tomorrow. Again. “His phone wallpaper is of his  _ car _ , not his wife or daughter,” Sherlock said, snapping him back to attention. “What does that say to you?”

“Alright,  _ fine _ , maybe you’re right.” John lowered his voice. “What’s your point?”

“Mrs Dalton is acting. She’s not really distraught. Why would she be?”

“Yes, why  _ would  _ someone grieve the loss of the person they were married to for years, even if they had grown apart?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and the two men regarded each other silently over the body of Mr Dalton for several long moments.

“Is this one of those Normal People Things again?” he asked.

“Yes, Sherlock. This is one of those Normal People Things.”

“Ah.” Sherlock abruptly got to his feet. “Lestrade!” he called across the room, and the weary-looking inspector looked up from his conversation with the police officer who had been questioning the Daltons earlier.

“Found anything?”

“Yes. I need to speak with- why are  _ they  _ still here?” he interrupted himself, his head whipping round so fast that Lestrade drew back, as if to avoid being sliced open by the man’s cheekbones. Or maybe it was just the sudden change in tone.  _ God,  _ John was tired. They were looking over at the musicians, who were still standing around looking like Italian mobsters that had been on a shopping spree at Oxfam. The group stared blankly back as they realised they were being talked about.

“Don’t you want to question them?” Lestrade said innocently. “They were singing about murder at the time. Seems a bit suspicious.”

“Very funny. Why are they  _ really  _ here?”

“We’re not going anywhere until we get paid!” said one of the band members hotly. She cut a striking figure in a sequinned dress and red hair piled on top of her head. “We’re professionals, and Hartley’s trying to stiff us!” It didn’t take Sherlock’s powers of deduction to work out that she was the frontwoman for the band. She certainly seemed to be the spokesperson.

“That seems to be going well for you. Speaking of the bar owner,” Sherlock turned smoothly back to Lestrade. “Where is he?”

“Sergeant Donovan’s talking to him in his office. She’ll be done soon.” At the mention of the Sergeant's name, Sherlock made a noise of displeasure in the back of his throat, then spun on his heel, heading for the front door.

“Tell him not to go anywhere,” he said over his shoulder, not missing a beat.

“Where are  _ you  _ going?” Lestrade called after him, but if he was expecting an answer, he must have been disappointed.

“Er, Sherlock.” John hurried to keep up with the detective’s long strides. “Where  _ are  _ you going?”

“Smoke break.”

“ _ What?”  _ They climbed the stairs and stepped out onto the chilly street. It had started to drizzle, and Sherlock set off at a brisk pace, clearly with some destination already in mind. John’s suspicions were confirmed when he ducked under the awning of a kebab shop and pulled a dented packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Seeing it was almost empty, he made a face but said nothing as he lit up and took a long drag while John looked on in dismay.

“So you’ve started smoking again?” he said, his tone incredulous.

“Obviously,” came the flat reply. John opened his mouth to reproach him, and then snapped it shut again. Sherlock was an adult, he decided, and could make his own terrible life choices. But he didn’t have to be happy about it. He was a  _ doctor,  _ damn it. He settled for sending a judgemental glare his friend’s way, while Sherlock finished his cigarette, diligently avoiding his gaze by studying the row of parked cars along the roadside.

“You know, those things will give you cancer,” said John as they strolled back towards the door to the speakeasy.

“Boring,” came Sherlock’s dismissive reply.

“And they’ll stain your teeth.”

“ _ Boring. _ ” Sherlock disappeared into the doorway and began to descend the stairs once more.

“And Molly Hooper thinks men who smoke are extremely sexy!” John said, with a touch of desperation, following close behind. He thought he saw Sherlock’s head turn almost imperceptibly towards him.

“You’re making that up,” he said, although John fancied he detected a shadow of doubt in the other man’s voice.

“No, it’s true,” he insisted. “She told me.”

They almost collided with Sergeant Donovan, who was on her way up the stairs. She stepped aside to let them pass - not that she had much choice, with Sherlock bearing down on her like a particularly aggressive variety of beanpole.

“Hartley’s all yours,” she said curtly as he passed. “Freak,” she added as she resumed her climb, just loud enough for the two men to hear her. John bit his tongue. He often engaged in good natured (and sometimes not-so-good natured) ribbing of Sherlock as often as anyone, but that was a word he refused under any circumstance to use. Sherlock gave no indication he had heard her, although John knew fully well he had better hearing than any man he’d ever met. Even if it was selective.

Mr Hartley, the owner of Starshine Speakeasy, turned out to be a tall man with an impressive old-fashioned moustache. He didn’t look old but his hair had already gone grey. He greeted them tiredly, which made his southern American drawl sound even lazier. It was as if the man had been born for the role as an underground, prohibition-era barkeeper.

“If it’s all the same, boys, you should be questioning those joes over there,” he said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the band. The frontwoman glared daggers at the back of his head, hands planted on her hips. “‘Specially the broad in the shiny getup, you dig?” Sherlock was visibly irritated at Hartley’s butchering of the English language, and John bit back a smile. Yes, it was going to be a long night, but at least it promised to be an entertaining one.

“And what,” said Sherlock, through gritted teeth, “Makes you say that?”

“They been acting all suspicious since they got here. And now they won’t leave, even though I said I’d pay the money into their account tomorrow. I’m not exactly rolling in long greens here. Everyone’s carrying plastic these days.”

“We AGREED on cash!” snapped the sequinned woman, her voice carrying easily across the empty bar.  _ Definitely  _ a vocalist.

“How long have you known the Daltons?” Sherlock demanded. The question apparently took the bartender by surprise, as for a second his eyes almost bulged out of his head. He immediately composed himself, but he seemed to realise he’d given himself away.

“How’d ya guess?” he said, trying to play it cool. Mrs Dalton was watching him intently from her seat nearby.

“I never guess. Answer the question,” said Sherlock, his eyes boring into the bar owner’s.

“Uh, a few months, I guess…” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t lie to me,” he sounded insulted that someone would even try to deceive him. “The top darts scores are engraved on a plaque right next to the bar. T. Dalton -  _ Terence  _ Dalton, is listed there in 2009. He’s been a regular of yours for a long time, hasn’t he?” He was doing that quick-fire barrage of data again, and Mr Hartley, who wasn’t accustomed to it, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. All eyes were on him. John almost felt sorry for the man.

Almost.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s _fine,_ Sherlock,” John said as his flatmate squeezed past him in their tiny kitchen, almost causing him to drop the stack of plates he was carrying. “You don’t have to help me clean up, I can manage.” He flattened himself against the countertop as Sherlock ducked past again. “Really.”

“Out of the question,” came the reply. In an apparent attempt to be valiant, Sherlock had offered to dry the dishes, quite forgetting that he barely knew where anything went as John did all of their cooking. As a result of his ignorance (and being too proud to ask), he spent twice as much time searching for the right cupboards than he did actually drying dishes. The lack of space only served to make the situation downright dangerous.

Sherlock swore sharply as he banged his elbow on a cupboard door, and John turned - then froze in the spot, his jaw hanging open. Sherlock caught his look and drew back slightly.

“What?”

“Sherlock!” John said, aghast. The detective’s dressing gown had loosened at some point during one of his frantic trips around the kitchen, sagging open at the chest. John’s brain was frozen in shock. He tried and failed to prod his sluggish neurons into action and form something resembling speech. “ _Sherlock_!” he repeated, somewhat unnecessarily.

“ _What?”_ his friend snapped, following his gaze to the many, _many_ nicotine patches covering his body. “Oh.”

“That’s it,” John decided, shaking his head. “You need to quit. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack, or worse.”

“I _am_ quitting!” Sherlock protested, gesturing to his chest.

“That’s not… _no_ , Sherlock, you’ve got an addictive personality or something. Those patches alone must be costing you a fortune. It’s cold turkey or nothing.”

“Oh, what’s the _point_?” the detective dramatically flopped down into a nearby chair, finger and thumb massaging his brow. John pursed his lips, pondering how to frame his reply.

“Um, for a start, you not killing yourself?” he tried.

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snapped, wrinkling his nose in disdain. “I’d never do something so ridiculous.” John gave an exasperated sigh. Sherlock was in a _mood._ There was no reasoning with him when he was like this. There was only one thing for it.

“Come on,” he said, like a parent scolding a child. He stuck his hand out, and waggled his fingers for emphasis. “Hand them over.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked blankly from his friend’s outstretched hand to his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the detective declared. He turned away to blow his nose. John didn’t move.

“The cigarettes in your pocket,” he gestured to Sherlock’s dressing gown. “You keep putting your hand in your pocket when you think I’m not looking. Either you’ve ‘borrowed’ my phone again or you’re hiding your last stash of cigs in there.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but John met his gaze with a triumphant smile. Finally, even Sherlock had to admit defeat.

“Not bad,” he said grudgingly, producing the crumpled cardboard packet and slapping it into John’s outstretched hand. He held onto it for a few moments longer than necessary before John finally took them from him. He gave a wan smile and turned away, but John couldn't help but be suspicious. He could have sworn he saw a glimmer of hunger in the other man’s eyes.

_Best get rid of these soon_ , he thought, _before he tries to wrestle them off me._ Simply throwing them in the bin was out of the question. Sherlock had taken (and consumed) worse things out of the trash, although he always insisted they were for an ‘experiment’. He’d have to leave the house, he realised, grabbing his coat and informing his despondent housemate he was going for a walk. With any luck he would find a skip somewhere.

* * *

Sherlock left Hartley sweating under Lestrade’s watchful eye, a whiskey clutched in one hand and shooting occasional furtive glances as Ms. Dalton, who glared back, tight-lipped. (“I’ll get to _you_ in a minute,” Sherlock had promised her.)

“ _Hello,_ ” Sherlock said as he advanced towards the stage. The band members stared back at him with about the same level of trust a rabbit might give a hungry fox.

“What do you want?” said the redheaded vocalist.

“Just to satisfy my own curiosity,” Sherlock replied levelly. “Are you Charlie?” he held up the flyer Lestrade had given him back at Baker Street, the band’s name emblazoned across the top. Charlie nodded in affirmation, and he smiled. John noted his transformation from cold interrogator to genial… well, interrogator. There was no point in pretending he was going to do otherwise.

“What do you want to know?” she asked. Her red lipstick had smudged, John noticed. It was _very_ late.

“Tell me what happened.” Charlie pursed her lips and let out a long, slow breath. She looked Sherlock over for a minute, as if trying to figure him out. Good luck to her, thought John, as she stepped neatly over a trumpet case and squeezed past one of her bandmates, a bearded man wearing a flat cap and sleepers in his ears.

“Well, we were doing one of the crowd favourites, Wink Murder. There’s this instrumental bit in the middle where I wink at people in the audience and they keel over. Audience participation.” she said ‘audience participation’ like someone might say ‘mandatory colonoscopy’. “But see, I didn’t even look at the guy,” she continued, and motioned down to the body splayed on the speakeasy floor. Sherlock followed her gesture, taking in the row of tables between the stage and Mr Dalton. He narrowed his eyes, and turned back to the singer.

“You didn’t notice any commotion?”

“Not until we finished the song.” A slow smile spread over Sherlock’s features, and he spun on his heel and stalked into the centre of the room. There he stood, spectre-like, his fingers steepled.

John checked his phone again, trying not to think about how he’d feel tomorrow morning. He sidled over to his friend, whose eyes had glazed over, his brain processing all of the data he had collected so far. He was debating whether to give the man a shake when his head snapped up.

“Nobody at the Dalton’s table reacted to him keeling over until _after_ the song,” he said, his voice low. Having not been privy to Sherlock’s conversation with Charlie, John’s tired brain floundered for a moment.

“Lestrade, turn off the lights. I need to think.”

“Uh, they’re going to be here any minute to pick up Mr Dalton...”

“Then hurry up!” Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh and slipped behind the bar (not without a pained look from Hartley) and began flicking the lights off one by one. The bar plunged into darkness, except for the stage lights.

“How long is this going to take?” called Lestrade, sounding less and less patient by the minute. Sherlock did not reply, but John felt his friend grab his jacket sleeve, and allowed himself to be dragged over to the table where the Daltons had been seated. By the light from the stage John saw him waving frantically at the band, still onstage and shielding their eyes from the glare. Blinded by the lights, they didn’t respond. Finally, Sherlock’s point was starting to sink into his sleep-deprived brain - at least, he thought it was.

“Charlie didn’t see anything because the Daltons were in the second row of tables,” he began with caution. “They couldn’t have noticed Mrs Dalton signalling for help.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock said, not bothering to soften the blow. “Even if they couldn’t _see_ what was happening they would have heard - or at least, the other people in the audience would have. Don’t you think if Mrs Dalton made a fuss, someone would have come over to help? But they didn’t. What does that tell you?” John fumbled for a coherent answer.

“They… knew?” The table’s occupants were staring at them curiously now.

“They more than _knew_. They killed him.” John was still struggling to process this particular leap of deduction when Sherlock turned to the assembled police. “Test Mr Dalton’s glass for poison - no, wait.” The officers had started towards the table but stopped short as he shoved his hand out to stop them. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ve got it.” he shook his head with a chuckle. “Oh, that’s good.”

“For god’s sake, just tell us,” snapped Lestrade, apparently too exhausted to deal with Sherlock’s usual charade.

“John, check his feet.” Already dreading what he might find, John knelt down and loosened one of the dead man’s shoes, slipping it off. His sock nearly came with it, and a second later he recoiled as the putrid stench of infection filled the air. He clapped a hand over his mouth and nose. “Ugh, he’s got a nasty infection,” he said, leaning back and taking a breath. “Could be diabetic,” he added, standing up once more. “Reduced feeling in extremities means blisters often go unnoticed - doesn’t take much for one to get infected.”

“He _is_ diabetic,” Sherlock agreed. “He takes insulin before every meal, am I correct? Don’t answer that,” he said, holding out his hand, stopping Mrs. Dalton before she could interject. “If we checked his stomach or thighs we would find the point where he injected it, except it _wasn’t_ insulin, was it, Mrs. Dalton?”

“What in god’s name are you talking about?” the woman was looking more and more panicked by the second.

“Your husband took insulin before every meal. All someone would have to do to cause him harm is swap out his insulin for something… stronger.”

“ _Why_ on god’s green earth would I want to hurt my husband?”

“Simple; for his life insurance payout. Your lover, Mr. Hartley, has been struggling for money for quite some time-”

“Just what the _hell_ are you talking about?” Hartley butted in.

“Oh, I haven’t even _started_ on you,” replied Sherlock, turning on him and rubbing his hands together. “Your car has a large dent in the front passenger-side door, am I correct? Don’t answer that,” he added again, without even pausing for breath. John let out an incredulous laugh as he remembered how Sherlock had been so fixated on the cars parked alongside his chosen smoking spot.

“Yeah, so?” demanded the bar owner in an attempt to sound casual. The effect was ruined by his voice cracking.

“Most people would take good care of their car, especially the kind of man who has his _name_ on his license plate,” Sherlock told him, in the tone of voice one used to scold a particularly slow child. “H-A-R-T-1-3-Y. Not very subtle, even for you. A dent like that would be simple to have repaired - _if_ the owner had the money to do it.”

“Hey, that only happened a couple of days ago! I still got the bruises!” Hartley pulled his collar aside to reveal an ugly yellowish-brown blotch running down his collarbone. Sherlock looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“I told you before, _don’t_ lie to me.” his voice was dangerously low now, and John felt a shiver run down his spine. He could only be thankful the man wasn’t questioning _him._ “Those bruises are at least ten days old."

“Alright, so I’m short on dough, what’s your point?”

“I’m not done yet. You couldn’t let your petty squabble with the band go, could you? You had no intention of paying them, and they knew it. So you decided to try and ruin their reputation with your kooky little stunt. You and Mrs Dalton knew exactly when Charlie and her scruffy friends would play their “crowd favourite”, and so you timed his fake insulin injection to coincide with that. Then, when the song was over, you could feign shock when he didn’t get back up again. It didn’t matter that the idea of a ‘killer song’ is patently ridiculous. The sheer coincidence alone would be enough for the more feeble-minded bar owners to think twice about hiring them.” He rolled his eyes, while Charlie and her band glared daggers at the sweating Mr. Hartley.

“Surely you’re not taking this madman seriously?” Mrs Dalton exploded. She marched over to Lestrade, shaking furiously. Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

“He makes some _interesting_ points,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “In any case, some simple testing will either confirm or disprove Mr. Holmes’ theory. Why don’t you come along to the station with me? We can wait for the results together.” Mrs Dalton’s lips were pressed together in a quivering line. Her daughter hovered nearby, her eyes glassy, her face drained of colour.

“What about her?” John said quietly to Sherlock, nodding in her direction.

“She has nothing to do with this!” Mrs Dalton snapped.

“Is that so? Inspector, this might be a good time to remind her of her right to silence." Sherlock was enjoying this _far_ too much, John thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Don’t push your luck,” Lestrade warned him, as Mrs Dalton and Mr. Hartley were led upstairs by sullen-looking police officers.

* * *

Later that evening, John was sitting in his favourite chair with his laptop open on his lap, proofreading his work before it went live on his blog page. He had an air of unrelenting serenity about him, despite Sherlock rampaging around the flat, pulling cushions off chairs and turning ornaments upside down and shaking them in case he had any emergency cigarettes stashed away. He didn’t - John had already checked and disposed of them. It was keeping the man busy, at least.

“I can’t take it any more!” he declared, whirling around on the spot like a dog chasing its tail.

“Oh, but you’re doing so well,” John said mildly, not taking his eyes off his work.

“I’ve changed my mind, John,” said Sherlock, grabbing his coat. “I can quit another day. And since you threw away my emergency cigarettes, I’m going to go and buy some more.” John shrugged.

“Well, I can’t stop you,” he said as Sherlock knotted his scarf around his neck, grabbed his wallet from the table and stormed from the flat, blue coat flapping behind him.

John heard his friend’s footsteps on the stairs, and reached into his jeans pocket, fingers curling around the borrowed debit card resting snugly inside.

He smiled, clicked “submit”, and went to make a cup of tea.


End file.
